Words words words...

At this time of year I find my heart and my mind and my EARS filled with words. The words of wishes, sent with love and hugs and kisses. The words of thanks for blessings. The words that are said because they should be said... and sometimes even the words that haven't been said.

If you could say anything, what would you say?

At this very moment: "I like Baileys."

And that just seems to leave something wanting, eh?

As my first semester came to an end I was subjected to a task I haven't been a part of for about half a decade. (when you say it like that is sounds more impressive than "5 years") I had to write *gasp* ... ESSAYS! Not even essays. "Summative Statements." Two of them. After such a delicious break from formal writing, I definitely had a challenge in jumping back into it. And I remembered what made the break 'delicious'. After a semester of some real kick-ass-ness and awesome experience it was excruciating. But now 'tis done and shall not be thought upon again... until I have to lather, rinse, repeat at the end of next semester.

I've also decided to write a play, using this whole school thing as an excuse and planting a giant deadline on it. I, like many artists, work well with deadlines. I made the (un)fortunate move of telling an amazing writer that I'm working with about such a project. She then decided I am a writer, sending me all sorts of amazing info and resource material, including the posting for a play proposal competition, with the urging I submit my idea. So being the crazy, "why-the-heck-not" chica that I am, I pulled up my socks and threw something into the ring. Who knows what shall come of it. But I've got a fire in my brain now... and my heart... and it just might be the terrifying thing I've been looking for to grow from.

My holidays are one third complete now, my belly full of turkey and excessive sweetness (and Baileys - let's not pretend here), and my soul missing my hearts' friends. So I'll just blow up some big beautiful bubbles of positive pink EmC energy and send them out sprinkly snow style to those near and far... and perhaps they'll have the words I mean to say in them... xoxo

Just think happy thoughts...

So some time in the past couple months I must have decided to scrap the whole "waiting around for pixie dust" thing and taken this flying situation into my own hands!

On the first account, there's school, which I'm flying through. I do not know how it is physically this late already. December is about to start, but I only just got here (but I've been away from everyone for ever, but I just saw them in the summer, but I don't know when I'll see them again - lather, rinse, repeat). Between voice classes and movement classes, mixed in with some ENTHRALLING Stanislavski and Chekov work (pause to wipe off the excessive sarcasm), add a handful of time spent working with playwrights, sprinkled with a dash of my own research project, I'm kinda going out of my nut. So, as always, the best solution is to keep doing more, and play catch up at all times. I'm really loving it (no pause necessary here, I actually mean it). We've had our first mini performance which went over incredibly well. It was like a festival of our class and everyone was fantastic. Gosh I'm working with some friggin' talented people. All of them. It's brilliant. No time to catch our breath though, as we're now into the beginnings of workshopping on new works, prepping for our Chekov presentations (which I'm THRILLED about and really looking forward to - - - pause for wiping), getting our Shakespeare auditions to their stellar best, and writing our semester summative statements. No problem.

Now to the literal flying. I've started taking a trapeze class. Partly as something to do outside of the program. Partly as a challenge and something entirely different. Partly because I think that the image of me dangling from a little bar up in the air is hilarious, completely with gangly arms and flailing legs. So let's do it! Why not! And I love it. I'm totally not strong enough to do have the stuff yet. Nor flexible enough. Nor fit enough. But there is stuff I can do. And I feel great doing it... other than the upside down sit ups I was forced to do by our instructor while hanging by my knees - still, pretty rad that I could totally do that! I also just did a weekend of aerial work. Think Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, but far less beautiful and poised, as well as some uncomfortable grumbling nearer the end of the day. You wear a harness, very similar to one for rock climbing, and you're attached to a rope that you spin and turn and flip and hang and climb on. It's like flying ninja awesomeness. But there is a price for this awesomeness, my grasshoppers. Think about that harness again. And where the straps go. And inappropriate bruising. I've said enough.

Two other little notes of interest: While cleaning the flat last weekend, we had a couple of our bedroom windows open. One of the neighbourhood cats decided to jump in and say hello, but became rather frightened when we tried to say hello in return. He ran out of the hallway, through the kitchen and up to the large bay window in his attempt to escape. This window was not open. The cat bounced backwards and I've rarely tried to stifle a laugh so hard as that poor cat let out a most feeble "meow" that sounded quite similar to a "doh!"

The other is that I've now met Ruth. My flatmate's pal who lived in London and DATED GERARD BUTLER!!! I lost my mind while talking to her about this!! Apparently he had to miss a date, sending her a text at the last minute saying he needed to get to the theatre, and she thought he was blowing her off so deleted his number. He was starring in Phantom at the time. Moved to LA months later. She realized who he was about a year ago after watching PS I Love You.

I asked her if she wanted an invite to our wedding.

Why Not?

A couple weeks have flown by, overflowing with all kinds of "new" 's and not near enough "zzz" 's. But I've just made my first batch of cookies in far too long, and this seems the perfect point to catch up.

Starting from now and moving backwards...

I'm currently just over half way into a two week Grotowski intensive. For those theatre nuts out there, you'll have an inkling of what this is all about. Jerzy Grotowski is a crazy Polish dude who created a new theatre movement, starting in the 70's but breaking into the forefront in '89 with the collapse of Communism. So we're talking pent up emotions coming out of not being allowed to express yourself. Just to set up the scene for you. Jerzy had the idea in his brain to connect with the physical possibilities in theatre, as opposed to solely text, and went to town on gestures and metaphors. There is a lot of inspiration coming out of Polish folk history and tradition, and in our particular circumstance, Greek vases. We're working on a sort of mish mosh telling of the Orestia (old Greek play series, written by Euripedes, dealing with adultery, matricide, war, oracles from the gods, and teenage angst. Among other things. Just so you're on the same page). Not only have we developed an "alphabet" based on some of the findings on these old vases and urns and wall hangings, but we're also learning recreations of what the old greek songs may have sounded like. (does that sound vague? cuz it should) And just incase the singing and gesturing doesn't sound interesting enough, we've also added some acrobatics. The result of all of this is an incredibly intense work environment wherein there is so much sweat on bodies/walls/floors that you stop being self conscious and just try not to slip. We had two people home sick today, one other guy just observed as his back is out, one rush to the hospital with a dislocated shoulder, and as the first injury of the session, I was dropped on my face last week. Directly. On my face.

For those of you gasping in horror and distress, don't worry, I'm fine. I didn't even get a black eye. (bummer, eh?)

So continuing backwards, this weekend (as a consequence of both the ridiculous week I'd had and the fact that I hadn't given myself a day off since I MOVED HERE) I slept. Yep, that's pretty much it. My flatmate knocked on my door at almost 1pm on Saturday, just to check I was still alive.

Last week I saw some rad theatre, some really not rad theatre, and had a crazy Greek experience. (the Greek theme has come up quite often in the past 10 days, perhaps the universe is hinting that I should take a trip to Greece?) It was the birthday of one of the girls in my class, so we booked an 18 seater table for dinner at a cute little Greek restaurant. Surprise surprise, the loud theatre group took over the joint. (it didn't really look like anyone else tried to come in, but they were probably able to hear us outside the restaurant on the street and wisely chose to go elsewhere) About 2 hours in, the little Greek owner brought in a piece of cake and demanded we sang. Which we did without hesitation. He then informed us that he had a friend who played bagpipes who just happened to be here and would play us two songs. Which he (the friend) did before being told by the owner to shut up. The owner then announced that he would dance for us. About an hour later, after being led in our own personal "how to dance like a little old Greek man" lesson, we were treated to "American pop music" featuring the likes of Abba, Kylie Monogue, and Robbie Williams. The macarena was in there too. (none of those groups are American... facetiousness and sarcasm seem to really not translate without vocal tone...) We danced our faces off all the same.

To the weekend preceding all this. I went up to Balloch with a couple pals. Balloch is a town just on the edge of Loch Lomond, with gorgeous walking paths. We had beautiful sunshine and leaves to roll in. Totally beautiful. Like this country. Ya know, when you're not stuck in a city or whatever.

And before all of that, as well as the inspiration for the title of this post, De Castro. A little lady clown from Brazil who has a body in the shape of the number 8 (due to a pretty heavy duty belt) and a love to laugh. This woman captivated our class for the first hour of our day all week. She played tag with us, and giant/wizards/trolls (which I totally have to teach you - think rock/paper/scissors but with your body and in a group!), and led us in laughter yoga. She described to us how she stumbled into this career because of simply doing it "for the fun of it." And that has kept her going ever since. She has founded a company called Why Not Inc.

And when all is said and done, and you really stop to think about it, why not?

This should have been about three posts. If you read this far, 5 gold stars for you. Unless you're my mom or dad, because it's expected and they are already paid for always in the joy of having me as a daughter.

PS - people actually think free style rapping is one of my skills. and they refer to me as a ninja on a more frequent occasion than I thought possible. my awesomeness grows...

The moment before the kiss...

Week one, totally in the bag. I demolished week one. Obliterated it. Made it my bitch, if you will.

Granted it was orientations and meeting people and developing those beginnings of relationships that will stretch and grow and determine and be part of the rest of my life in whatever capacity that may be.

But still, I made it my bitch.

Week one involved a lot of standing in lines, moving in conglomerate blobs of groups, sticking to your buddy, and not getting lost. We had at least three lectures that started with instructors saying something along the lines of "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to tell you." These included the fire and safety tour, the emergency exit tour and the library tour. Not essential right? As long as no one sets a fire to anything in the library.

This banality was contrasted with our 9am Wed class, wherein we were greeted, recognized the faces in the room, and were presented with "You will be doing a major independent study this year, which is intended to influence and further your career as an artist. So, what is it you want to do with your life. Now discuss."

There was a collective explosion of our brains, and within 45 min the fire alarm went off, without a doubt, due to the smoke being expelled from each of our ears.

(we found the fire exit... funnily enough, they've got these handy signs pointing the way, and they look like doors. Really glad we needed that tour... )

I wish I could truly let you in on all that will be going on this semester, but I think I'll let it slip out with every adventure I take. No point in all of us dying of anticipation. You guys just get suspense.

(I do find it amusing how I assume there are people other than my immediate family reading this. What a comforting assumption)

This weekend I did an outside workshop on viewpoints and physical techniques for performers. The instructor was from Buenos Aires and it was fantastic. Very physical and a great way to centre myself before things get going at the Academy. And it only cost me 25GBP. Awesome.

Nothing ridiculous to point out at this juncture. Other than the fact that I've told people that I'm an amateur rapper, the world's greatest ninja, and destined to be a superhero. I figure at least a couple of those can be true. And they laugh at my jokes here. Some people have even given more than just chuckles.

Who knows, I might just fit in.

Bring it on, week two!

just a little reflection...

So I've started. I'm in. Almost all in.

Almost.

My new home is phenomenal. High ceilings. And old tenement building. A secret garden outside my window. Original hard wood floors. Adorable little kitchen primarily used for baking. Big windows. A piano. Fabulous girls to share with.

And my bed. Oh my gosh, my bed. I wish I could invite everyone I know to just come and snuggle and cuddle and relish the experience. (I mean that in a truly pure and wholesome manner - unexpected, as that may seem)

I'm feeling a little held. Not held up or held under. Just held. Balancing almost. Just about to cross totally over into all this new. Yet I feel ever so slightly like I'm mourning. In my head I have this feeling of 'old' friends and 'new' friends. All the 'new' I'm meeting are exciting and interesting and full of potential. Oh how I miss my 'old'. I don't know how they became 'old' as if they've gone down in grade, and they haven't. If anything I'm hanging on more. Wishing for them. Praying for them. Thrilled to hear from them and disheartened when the response doesn't come. But they've become 'new' in their world. In the TV show of their lives, going on wherever it is that they are, that I was only ever a reoccurring character on, is in it's own new season.

Sometimes you look back at that first season and think it just doesn't get any better. Sometimes you are so thrilled that the next season came along because it was so much more awesome than the one before.

So I'm held. And I'm holding on.

Exciting, isn't it?

All in the Timing

Gotta say, this place is totally doing it for me. I now live in a place where I can hit up Edinburgh for a night or two. See my cousin, have some beers, meet a lethally handsome Chilean man and fall in love for a night and wonder if I'll ever see him again and let the romantic notion that one day I'll be in a famous movie and he'll see it and then he'll come find me and confess his love and have become super rich by then and we'll spend our days travelling and having beautiful half Chilean/half 'whitest-girl-ever' babies...

I was thinking about going to Paris for the weekend. I've never been to Paris. How fantastically awesome would it be to just hop a flight and do that, and how totally rad would it be to just throw away to all my friends across the ocean that I just 'went to Paris for the weekend.'

But Paris, as cheap as the flight was, is expensive to stay in. And I can't be quite that reckless.

(do you feel the story coming on?)

At about 4 o'clock on Friday afternoon, I decided I'd go to London for the weekend. I have two cousins down there that I might be able to catch up with, and a friend or two as well. I'd take a sleeper train, to save a night in accommodation. I'd see "Inherit the Wind," currently running at the Old Vic Theatre, starring Kevin Spacey, Oscar winning actor and possible guest master class teacher for my upcoming program. And, with the sleeper train leaving at, like, 23:30 or 23:40 or something, I could go out and have a couple beers with a pal.

(please read carefully and follow some of the details... )

Train ticket booked, emails/facebook msgs/texts sent, small bag packed. Look at me go, off to London for the weekend. I am so cool.

So I get my first taste of Glasgow City Centre on a Friday night, at what must have been the busiest pub anywhere, as you could barely move enough to get the glass to your mouth. Followed up with a "I'm sure I've got time for one more" at a pub with a far more reasonable number of people in it. A look of the cell phone - wait - mobile tells me it's about 23:20. So off we go to the train station for the beginning of my weekend of awesome. I run in, looking for the ticket print out thingy, only to discover that it is, in fact, 23:45... my train left at 23:40. On the dot. Because they do that here. (fantastically and I SUPER appreciate it, as long as it doesn't work against me)

Next train leaves at 4:24. AM. That's early.

Impossible to get to from the boonies where I've been staying, I couch crash for the three hours or so I have until the next train. Brushing off the "I already paid 50GBP for a ticket" and focussing on the "I'm going to London for the weekend and that's awesome!"

*note - Glasgow Central Station opens at 4am. Something to be aware of if you are now paranoid about missing a second train to London. Showing up forty minutes early will only leave you waiting in the street with people who are at the pukey/drunky/throwing-up-y stage of the night.

I get the train, a couple of hours of broken sleep over the 4 and a half hour journey, and reach London, already bustling at 9 am on a Saturday morning. I find the hostel I booked and am informed that there is no way I can get in, as check in is not till 2:30, and I'm given a look of suspicion at the fact that I don't have any luggage, just my shoulder bag. (another point of pride - I can pack light). OBVIOUSLY my only option is to head to Camden market and purchase some necessary and essential items for my months ahead.

Check in is not so much of a breeze, but I appreciate that I get a double room to myself as opposed to the dorm room I thought I was getting. All for the same price. Change into my new clothes and I'm on my way.

At this point I must say that one cousin has bailed as he was partying until 8am, and is planning on doing the same tonight, and my good friend from L.A. (aka the 'Bridge) is in orientations all day. This leaves one friend and one cousin MIA or TBA or basically out there someplace with a message from me they haven't checked yet.

I get to the Old Vic Theatre in lovely sunshine and let my theatre geek go to town. (the building is pretty cool, and I find the stage door. ) The MIA cousin calls, we set up to meet after the show that couldn't be more than a couple hours.

I got to watch almost 3 hours of Kevin Spacey being a great actor, over 40 actors on stage (which is such a rarity), see an well directed production from Trevor Nunn, and do it all from the (dis)comfort of a 10GP seat. Last ticket in the house. Then I waited in a circus throng of people to meet the Kev-Spa. Giggly girls, older women, one almost fanatic looking guy who was clutching program, ticket, poster from tonight as well as a couple of blown up headshots... weird. And everyone of the other 40 actors got to walk through this throng, knowing full well it wasn't for them. Kev Kev was the last out, and only came to this kind of window shutter, from which he could sign autographs and have pictures taken without getting mobbed (...by creepy fanatics holding pictures of him...). He was really quite polite and patient, and I waited till the crowd dispersed to walk up and say "I have nothing for you to sign and I don't need a picture, I just want to thank you for your performance tonight. I'm here from Canada, about to start at the RSAMD and am hoping I might meet you again in a class this year...?"

"Ya, I dunno, I might be making movies."

Fair enough, Mr. Spacey. Fair enough.

I hop on a tube to meet my cousin, along the same line I'm staying on which is awfully convenient.

(note for those keeping track: it's about 22:50 pm when I do this)

Hang out, have a catch up, some laughs, discover that they make ice cubes over here by pouring water into these plastic, self sealing bag things, (as opposed to ice trays that suddenly sound incredibly sensible) and that blush wine is incredibly popular here, even with incredibly hetero men, as red makes you sleepy and that just wouldn't do when you live in a country that parties until 8am ... the rest of the gang is off to see a DJ, but I play responsible and get dropped off at a tube station along the way.

Time now: 00:37

Last tube departed: 00:22

The cab ride cost almost 50GBP.

I knew that the train heading back to Glasgow in the morning came at 9 something. Like 9:15 or something like that. There was one at 8 something, 9 something, 10 something, but I wanted that 9 something in order to meet Heather when she got back from her Ireland adventure. I run into the train station at 8:41. A train leaves at 8:45 which makes me ecstatic except that I'm not sure where the gate is and as I go to look I read the bulletin under the time clock saying "doors close two minutes before departure" by which time the train is no longer listed on the board.

The 9 something was 9:45.

I'm gonna have to get a bit more precise with those details.

In the end, I made it into Glasgow in time to hop onto a train in the seat right next to Heather and share the briefings of our past week with the whole of the car (we did not use appropriate inside volume).

I spent almost 120GBP more than I should have, had I just got the timing right.

Maybe next time I should just go to Paris.

Adventures in Flat Shopping; Episode 1

After a not necessarily long and arduous search process, I had my first response to come and check out a flat. As someone who had dealt with showing apartments for over a year, I know that I didn't get back to people right away. Sometimes not at all. I'm a jerk. So sue me. But darn it all, when I'm in a foreign country, currently staying in the equivalent of Okotoks to Calgary (though with a transportation system that actually works, meaning I can still get to Calgary... er... Glasgow... whatever, I get to take a train and that's cool), I want to get myself into a place I can call my own.

1st response. We'll call him "Alpha"  

*at this juncture I would like to point out that I hope this is a quick process and a happy ending comes along soon, as A) I really want to unpack my stuff and not have to pack it up again... maybe EVER; and B) I don't know very many Greek letters... *

Alpha posted an add for a flat share (Canadian equiv = roommate) in a "spacious flat, perfect for uni student." He's a 3rd year med student, living in a nice building in a quieter area, "close to the West End" which is the hip and happenin' student part of town. The message I got after responding was brief, but very helpful in that it gave me awfully specific directions on how to get there. Always appreciated. 

I haul my tuckus onto the train to downtown, then onto the train to Kelvindale, home of Alpha and his flat. Turns out it's the equivalent of Airdrie to Calgary. (if you're keeping up with me on my intended metaphors, this means that it's almost equally as far away, though in the opposite direction. Wicked) I check out the area. Uncharming, but with a canal I can theoretically run along. I step up to the front door of the building, my mind buzzing with what this Alpha guy is gonna look/sound/act/smell/laugh/cook like. Press buzzer. Voice comes through and my instant thought is "Oh, he must have a girl over."

I head into the building, up the first flight of stairs and turn left to the opening door, where Alpha is standing.  A cherubic, smiling, blonde, curly and bespectacled head is in front of me.... eye level with my boobies. Alpha is 5 feet tall. Maybe. This beautifully angelic voice greets me with a 'hello, so glad you found us' and all of my being is resisting the urge to ask where he's keeping his harp, how does he hide his wings, and isn't he supposed to be wearing only a diaper?  In less than five minutes I'm shown around the flat, followed and guided by the little giggles spilling out of possibly the cutest thing I have ever seen. The tour also includes Alpha's "my dad" sitting on the couch because "he's taking me to watch the football game *giggle giggle". The flat is lacking any kind of charm or energy or anything really, not that it would require anything when living with Alpha/Cupid I'm sure... just a code to know when he's working so to stay out of the way of the bow and heart-arrow thingy.

I said I had some places to look at. I'd send him a message soon.

I was very aware of the fact that, as cute and adorable as he was, I could not be the gigantor Emmazon living with the giggling angel. 

I just like beer way too much.

Stay tuned for tomorrow's episode including: Beta ("uh, picking up a car with my dad, can you call me back?"), Gamma (email: time, coordinates, will show flat), and Delta (text: "don't call before 11, cuz I'll be hungover").

*And what we've learned is that it's not worth the cabbage!

My sincerest apologies. 

That previous entry was the result of a ticking clock counting down the precious pennies I'd put into the internet machine at my last hostel. A machine that was able to utterly destroy any descriptive storytelling abilities I have. Let me adjust the previous story, and give you a bit of detail.

Heather and I had our first two nights in Glasgow, staying with my aunt and uncle. Thursday night was a bit ridiculous, being the 12 hour catch up sleep. We spent Friday 'in town', which is Central Glasgow, as opposed to Cambuslang, where we're staying, about a half hour train ride away. Trains are incredibly common, as are the buses and subway though I've yet to venture to either of those as of yet. There are little men of all shapes and sizes that work on the trains (writing it like that makes them sound like gnomes or hobbits or smurfs or something... which they are not... though it would be rather hilarious if they were!) and check for tickets or mark your tickets or give you tickets... none of them are aggressive, hauty or just out for a power trip like the CTrain squad in Calgary. Like this place already. The tasks for the day were as follows:

1. find my new school 

b. get me a mobile

iii. buy a cheap watch for Heather.

1. Turns out my school really is right down town. Across the street from the National Theatre. Around the corner from the Royal Theatre. And TOTALLY AWESOME!! We ended up getting a 'wee bit' of a tour from Kate, one of the ladies I'd been corresponding with. It was about 45 minutes worth of top to bottom through the school. There is a small, but state of the art pros theatre, currently going through refurbishing, with full wings and fly space. A black box theatre is fully equipped on the bottom floor, so between the two we get some kick ass performance space. We were shown about half a dozen different class rooms, for movement, voice, etc. The school also has opera, musical theatre, dance and music programs at varying undergrad and MA levels, as well as a tech theatre program too. It puts what I've been educated in to shame. Heather got to watch my brain actually explode out of my face as I was told that only the first semester (till the end of Dec) is spent at the school. The rest is all in placements with theatres around the country. Three weeks in Edinburgh here, a month in London there, smatterings of performances around Glasgow in between. None of the MA students from this year were currently at the school, as they were touring the brand new show that had been WRITTEN FOR THEM around the UK. (aaaaaannnnnddddd BBOOOMMM! explosion. cue ridiculous smile to be plastered to face for next hour and a half)                   I cannot believe I am here!

My class will have 20 actors, about half from the UK, the rest from Canada, the US, and Australia from the looks of things, as well as 3 directors. 

So much more on this to follow.

b) Mobile is the UK word for cell. So I no longer have a 'cell phone' but a 'mobile.' I also apparently have no clue how the whole SIM card/pay as you go/multiple carriers thing works. I was wearing the cutest possible smile I could muster (trying to make the ridiculous grin more subtle) and being the most adorably Canadian that I could, but the bloke in the store was having none of it. Not helpful. Not very patient. And in the end, after I'm sure he was convinced I was an alien not a Canadian, I picked up a phone and put a bunch of money on it. There is no plan that helps to soften the blow of international texting until I get a bank account. And even then, 'soften' is relative. (like clay instead of rock, but not soft puffy clouds of free)

iii) Cheap book store! 5pound watch! Awesome deal!     (I am writing this not even a week after the purchase... our game is "guess the time on Heather's watch." It's not a case of being fast or slow, I think it may actually be in control of time and space travel for extra terrestrials and we will shortly be 'visited' so that it can be reclaimed. Point being, it sucks at telling time)

On Saturday we headed off to Edinburgh. This part was pretty much the same as the previous blog. Awesome castle, wicked hike in the sunshine for a 360 view of the city, British girls looking like hookers. Throw in a buff dude from Vancouver doing a juggling busking show in man panties, during which he pulled an equally buff bloke up from the crowd and they had a shirtless 'man-off' that involved feats of strength, agility, ninja-ness, that we were beginning to feel was all drool worthy, followed by Guinness, and our first day in Edinburgh was stellar.  It was that night that we met someone IN Edinburgh who was actually FROM Edinburgh. Unlike the Irish, French, Spanish, and many Canadians, I met a beautiful man named Stephen (I don't know if he spells it with a 'ph' but I like that better than the 'v') who was a born and bread Edinburghian... ugh... Edinburghite... em... Edin... he grew up there and still lived and worked there.  All I know is that he (apparently) had a really big flat, with a guest room and a large TV, and that I left him in the night, probably to never see him again...

On Sunday we slept until we deemed ourselves safe from hangover. We caught an exhibit at the Royal Museum on Spanish influence in the UK. El Greco, Goya, and Picasso. Pretty cool, and just long enough to feel culture appreciating, but it ended before we got bored and moody. We hopped a train to Stirling, and a taxi to get to the castle before it closed. Arriving with an hour to spare, that was easily the best 3GBP we spent all trip. (3GBP means the walk would have been about 15 minutes... but we get lost... a lot... so, best money spent all trip) Stirling castle is like the gorgeous summer home to Edinburgh's all business. It's full of gardens, about half the size, but twice as pretty. Yet again, we got to see it in beautiful sunshine. We had dinner at a cute pub, then hopped the train back to Edinburgh, finishing the night listening to some live music at the Bank Hotel.

On Monday we had a rad walking tour of Edinburgh. Our tour guide was (surprise!) from just outside of Toronto and just super. She gave us a ton of history, some little known facts, and some wicked laughs.  A life changing and worthwhile three and a half hours. (That's just for you, Andra, in case you ever read this!) I wish I could take you step by step on the tour myself, but you'll just have to come over here and see it for yourself.

After some grub we hopped onto the longest train journey we would take, ending up further up north on the western side of the country, in the small village of Banavie. In booking the hostel, I asked for directions and was told to 'get off the train and nab a taxi'. We arrived about 10:30pm, well after dark, to an empty and rustic train station with a large sign saying "Banavie has no local taxi service." So we started walking... into wherever it was that we were... thinking we might eventually run into somebody... 

For any of you who know Heather or myself, you know that our combined senses of direction could very likely get us thoroughly lost within a two block radius of a house we grew up in, while following a dotted line taking us to where we were going! (was that confusing? I mean that we suck at finding our way)  

For any time we have ever been lost in our lifetimes, the karma gods shone down on us. Our hostel was across the street and around the corner from the train station. Unnecessary for the non existent cab, though SUPER lucky that we truly stumbled on it. 

Yesterday, being Tuesday, we took a crack at Ben Nevis, Scotland's highest mountain. This mountain is about 4500ft high, nestled into the Lochaber region. The scenery is exquisite. It's the perfect fantasy movie, with a touch of Jurassic Park! 

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We hiked about two hours up, which is about 2/3 of the way, to where you could spot the hidden loch. There were a series of these lakes, all trapped up in the mountains, unexpected and stunning. I'll be back to conquer that mountain, many times I believe...

And today... we survived a number of cancelled trains, short nerves, damaged immune systems, and itty bitty traveling spaces to arrive back in Glasgow. We had dinner tonight with my fabulously amazing grandparents, who travel more than anyone I know and still flirt with each other, kissy face and all.  I'm now sitting on a comfy bed, completing this most epic of update posts, ready for a chill day tomorrow. Heather heads off to Ireland on Friday, and our little adventure comes to a close. My next adventures will involve flat shopping and securing a bank account. 

Magic moments... bubbles and beats and those happy face giant bouncy balls that smell vaguely of orange, grape and cherry plastic, all on Sauchiehaul (pronounced Suckyhall) Street.

... a little boy climbing up Arthur's Seat, talking with his Dad saying "Are there dragons up there? Maybe the dragon will make my leg feel better." (in cute little British kid talk, of course)

... stopping half way through our 4 hour train ride today to get a closer look at the HOGWART'S EXPRESS, which still runs through Northern Scotland.

*and the explanation for the title: if you were in Edinburgh 4oo years ago with no money, you would most likely have to steal food from the market. An apple would be all you need for yourself, but for your family at home you would need something more, like a cabbage. This would get you caught, punishment for which would be having your ear nailed to the merkat cross (the big notice board of olden times, in the middle of the market). At this point you would have to stay for 24 hours, enduring the taunts and beatings and humiliations of the other market people. Or you could rip your ear from the wall, permanently scarring yourself as not only a thief, but a coward. And above all, the public knowledge was equal to public shunning, severely limiting where you could work, and destroying any respect you might have had. So in the end, what we have learned is that it's not worth the cabbage!

The B&B tour

Amazing how much you can fill up just a couple of days, and how much my massive internet addiction is becoming very apparent. I think it's my connection with people. I've had to put it on the back burner, and leave behind all my friends... who I've already left behind... 6 days ago.

(poor whiny baby me!)

So here's the Cole's notes version:

What We've Done:
Heather and I embarked on our B&B tour of Scotland. (that would be BEER and BOYS for those of you not already aware) We had a couple nights to acclimatize in Glasgow - more on that later - and then hit up Edinburgh in glorious sunshine. I have NEVER seen it as beautiful as it was this weekend! The hostel we were at was directly across the street from the castle, which we conquered, down the road from Arthur's Seat, which we climbed, and walking distance from various pubs, which we made appearances at. We had a fantastic rambling Saturday night, during which we came to the conclusion that British women dress up like hookers on the weekends. Highheels (like hookers), short skirts (like hookers) and too much make up( like... 18 year olds). We felt a bit out of place, but still managed to not have to pay for much that night. These UK boys might have it figured out...
Sunday took us to Stirling, which was also gorgeous. Monday was a walking tour of Edinburgh, which was AWESOME. And today, being Tuesday, has seen us up in the highlands, attempting a climb of Ben Nevis, Scotland's highest mountain.

All of this can definitely be elaborated on, and shall be, but like I said. Cole's notes. And because I can't call all of you yet.

Flat shopping and getting a bank account are the next adventure. Not very exciting at all... but necessary.

More to follow... miss you!

What's in a name?

I'm not sure if you know this about me or not, but I'm pretty particular about my name.

*pause for smirking at my sarcasm*

Names are an interesting part of our identity. On my birth certificate, I am listed as Emma Claire Miller, Emma Claire being my first name. As the oh so precocious 5 year old that I was entering grade school, I was given the choice as to what I would like to be called. I opted for Emma, which I was for years. Entering university, I decided to take on my full name again, acknowledging that it might help set me apart from the crowd, as well as liking the way it sounds. It was a struggle that didn't go over as well as I'd hoped. Entering my professional career, I've been very much more stringent in regards to this. The result of all my years is that there are people all over the place referring to me in all sorts of different ways. I've been Em, Emma, Emmers, Emma Claire, EC, EmC, Cheeseburger, Sr, Frog, Hammish, Princess.... (that last one is what my momma calls me. It's had an obvious influence on how I've turned out). I'm about to go through the whole excitement of explaining to my family why I'm referred to as Emma Claire now (they don't particularly understand my concern over what anyone should refer to me as, especially seeing as I'm just an actress... go figure) as well as spending the next few weeks introducing myself in the following manner:

"Hi, my name is Emma Claire Miller."

"Nice to meet you, Emma."

"Actually, it's Emma Claire."

"Oh, Claire, sorry."

"No no, Emma Claire. Both names."

"Both names? (insert quizzical look here) Oh... alright then."

The reason for all this back story is that about 20 hours ago, Heather and I booked in for our flight to Glasgow. We were informed that we were NOT going to be granted our upgrade to Premium Class, that my mum had so awesomely bought for us. Apparently the airline switched the aircrafts, leading to a seating change, resulting in about a dozen people who would not be enjoying extra leg room, select dinners, and (most importantly) complimentary drinks. The girl at the desk, who had obviously been dealing with this issue for the whole first hour of her shift, and not seeing the end in sight, was as nice as she could be, considering we were upset and there was really nothing she could do. We left the desk, a bit pissed off, but what can you do, only to look down at my ticket, under which all the baggage tags were listed, to see that I, Emma Claire Miller, was not getting on to this flight.

Flight number   Gate number   Departure time     Miller/Mrs. Rowena

Really glad that she had my name on my passport sitting infront of her face, right next to my name on the list of 'disappointed no longer first classers'.

Rowena... that's a new one.

All said and done, the tix were changed, we had 8 hours of non-sleeping flight, I next to a two year old in his parents' lap, Heather next to the makey-outy newly weds, reached Glasgow, were picked up and dropped off, have supped and rested, soon to be to bed... and hopefully Miller/Mrs. Rowena made it to her destination too.

... and counting...

I sit in the basement of the house I grew up in. The walls that watched me grow and cry and dream. Cupboards and drawers and closets are filled with my 'left behinds,' from this trip and the last, and the ones before that. A bedroom that's been flooded more times than nights it's been slept in almost, a house under construction that has recently been named "My parents' " as it ceases to be "Mine."

Who would think that leaving this time would feel as tough when I've left before, when I've been gone so long already. 

But this time there will be a whole country, an ocean and 7 hours between myself and my family. As of Wednesday I will not touch my native soil for over a year... maybe more. Yet I go to my roots, the 'before there was me' place, and that is thrilling.

I will get to know the family that I know in 10 day spurts from every other year or two over my 26 years. Find out if my Uncle David makes me want to cry, just like he made my mum while they were growing up. Have dinner every week with my Gran and Grandpa so that they just might not be surprised by how blue my eyes are. Meet my cousin's knew baby and actually have a connection. Become friends with my family. And introduce them to the me that is so much more than the actress granddaughter from the colonies.

So as I pack up my bags and pack away what won't fit, this posting becomes my weightless, space saving, time efficient journal. For those who actually might read this, apologies in advance for it's sappiness. Or attempts at sarcasm (which so rarely translate).

But I invite you along on the journey and I learn and meet and grow... 

... and hopefully, of course, have Gerard Butler's beautiful babies!